


About Hesitation and Fulfillment

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Peter Rabbit (2018)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Breast Fucking, First Time, Kylux Adjacent Ship, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nude Photos, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 18:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Thomas has major abandonment issues, so he has always thought one-night stands just aren’t for him. He’s willing to make an exception for Rick.





	About Hesitation and Fulfillment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starkickback](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkickback/gifts).



“I’m Rick,” the man named Rick says, and points behind his back. “I saw your shop window.”

“It’s hard to miss,” Thomas replies. “It’s right there when you enter.”

It isn’t a joke, but Rick beams at him, not even laughing just genuinely _delighted_ that Thomas said something arguably funny. Thomas returns the smile with well-practiced ease, hands clasped behind his back. He’s a professional. He’s definitely not eyeing Rick’s toned, tanned thighs, long and lovely, a sight for sore eyes on a hot day like this. Thomas’s shirt feels suddenly too warm, and he self-consciously adjusts the collar.

“You have a Nikon Rangefinder SP there,” Rick says. He must be a tourist. He has an accent, he’s not dressed appropriately, and there’re two heavy cameras hanging from his neck on leather straps. He has sturdy boots and wool socks on. He looks like some kind of mountaineer who descended to sea-level with the sole purpose of distracting Thomas from his job. He’s supposed to be pricing a new arrival of spinning tops, not getting all flustered by this beast of a man.

“I’m afraid it’s not working.” Thomas explains after a too-long beat. “It’s only for decorative purposes.”

“Ah, it’s not for sale, then?” Rick pouts. He has delicious lips and a soft moustache and beard. Thomas feels like a creep for staring at him. His ears are ringing as Rick goes on to explain, “I’d sell my soul for an SP, broken or not. It was the first 35mm Rangefinder with _six_ built in framelines. And you even have the Jacobson SP cordless battery pack for it; those are totally _impossible_ to come by!”

Thomas has no idea what he’s talking about. He put the camera atop the unassuming black box it came with. His retail experience had taught him enough to know that the item was probably genuine, and from the late fifties. He bought it dirt cheap in a thrift market. It was heavy and battered, but fit Thomas’s summer display perfectly — a celebration of the great outdoors with a vintage twist.  

“I suppose I could offer it as a gift for your purchase,” he says, “provided you buy something above £5; but I can’t sell it separately.”

There. He’s starting to become a proper independent businessman. Harrods can eat their openings for manager positions. He’s not missing the shop he’s dedicated his whole life to at all.

“Deal!” Rick says, clapping sweetly. Thomas adjust his collar again. Pops a button open when Ricks turns his back to him. Feels ridiculous. Buttons up again. “Your shop is amazing,” Rick babbles, inspecting a wooden pull-along duck. “It’s _authentic._ You can tell each item was chosen carefully. They’re unique. They have their owners somewhere, they just haven’t met them yet.”

“Uh-huh,” Thomas says.  It’s the only thing he can say besides _will you marry me_.

“Wow! This is so cool.” Rick bends down to examine one of Bea’s paintings. 

“It was painted by my ex.”

Great. Now he’s oversharing, just when Rick put his arse on display. It’s a very appetizing arse. God, he’s lonely. No arse to keep him company.

“Tell them they’re super talented. I mean, uh, if you’re still on speaking terms.”

“I will tell...them,” Thomas manages. Puts his elbows on the counter. Tries his best to look his biest, hoping that Rick has similar tastes. The gender neutral pronouns are a promising start. Of course, it doesn’t mean that Rick is into men himself. He’s not looking at him, eyeing the painting.

“Really cool,” he repeats. “I’ve got a friend who just adopted a rescue bunny after moving to Burrawang. I think she’d like it.”

“It’d be a very thoughtful present,” Thomas says, failing to see the connection between bunnies and Burrawang, but leaves it be; Rick obviously has his head in the clouds. It’s no wonder, for someone so tall. “Although I must advise you that giving something so prominent and permanent to a friend may get awkward, unless you know their tastes quite well.”

Rick smiles at him again, impressed.  Thomas is just doing his job. It’s not his fault he does it well.

“I have this saying, when you’ve travelled with someone’s camels for months, you get to know them pretty damn well. Birds of a feather. Except with camels.”

“Sayings should be more general,” Thomas says, notices himself, and quickly adds, “but in any case, a new home calls for new decorations, and commemorating a pet’s adoption is a sweet sentiment. Yes.”

Rick has that determined frown in the corner of his mouth that tells Thomas he’ll make the purchase. He almost regrets convincing him. He could’ve made him linger a little longer—but no, Rick is not a browser. He’s exactly the kind of person who’d enter a shop because they saw something not for sale, _introduced themselves_ , and made a deal. That’s who he is; and also, with his travels and looks and whatnot, he’s way out of Thomas’s league. He drops the charm offensive, stops smiling, wraps the painting wordlessly as Rick chats on, complimenting the collection of puppets and music boxes.   

Rick pays in cash and almost hands Thomas euros. Their fingers touch briefly. Thomas feels weird. Ogling a handsome customer is one thing (one shameful, unprofessional thing) but it’s like he _misses him_ already. Rick is like a mistress at Christmas when Thomas gives him the camera and the battery-thingie, doe-eyed and ecstatic, the camera looking like a small toy in his massive paws.

“Are you a photographer?” Thomas asks flatly, not even attempting to make small talk; he expects a yes, one additional sentence, a goodbye, and that will be that. A missed connection, if there was any sort of connection at all. Maybe it was just the heat. The boredom of being in a small town when everybody worth their salt is away on vacation.

“I work for Nat Geo and TIME,” Rick mumbles, checking the lenses; Thomas is bitterly impressed. Rick peeks at him from behind his wire-framed glasses, with something mischievous in his eyes and admits almost abashedly, “I have an independent exhibition at the Barbican. If you’re interested. You know, rephotography, but with the wilderness. Not my usual thing, but well, shit happens. I mean. I hope it’s not shit”

“I love exhibitions,” Thomas says, mostly because he has no idea what rephotography means, although he assumes the name should suggest something.

“You’re ugh, cordially invited, then.” Rick still has his weather-worn wallet at hand; he fishes out a card, offers it to him. _What is worse_ , Thomas wonders, _if he just goes around inviting strangers, or if I was just invited to a date with a business card? (A friendly meeting,)_ he corrects himself as he flips the card over. The back is empty.

“You can google my name and it should pop up,” Rick says. “I’ll be there on Wednesday at four pm with a bunch of bored photography students who’d rather be literally anywhere else. If you come, please look judgemental, you’re not a real pro until someone hates you and I gotta impress those kids.”

Thomas chuckles, a bit shocked; why would Rick keep fooling around if it’s just a polite invitation that means nothing, or a PR thing, or something? And what about that teasing tilt of his voice, and the way he narrows his eyes at Thomas, almost a _wink_.

“I’ll consider it.” Thomas overdoes the aloofness, but his dignity is at stake.

* * *  

By all accounts, he should’ve forgotten Rick, and he was definitely not supposed to wank furiously to the thought of giving him that camera in exchange for a handjob (what is _wrong_ with him) (but it’s just fantasy, and Rick’s hands were so _big_ )—but, well, here he is. Barbican Centre. And he’s early, so he alternates between the first two photos on the wall, pretending to be engrossed.

It’s not all an act. Rephotography, as it turns out, is that thing where people superimpose old photos on new ones, contrasting present with the past; but Rick is not doing it with someone’s childhood home or a street that used to be a ditch, these are all about nature, and the contrast is so subtle it’s like a puzzle. (It is, indeed, not Rick’s usual thing. Thomas googled him. Thomas googled the heck out of him. His photos were all fantastic, but they made Thomas feel small and boring, because the distance between London and Windermere was almost immeasurable for him, but Rick has been bloody _everywhere_.)

Thomas has a light shirt on with a waistcoat, skinny jeans, good shoes. He tells himself he didn’t dress up for Rick. He dressed up for London. He’s home at here. After everything. After terrifying hallucinations about talking, malevolent rabbits. The side-effect of intense use of cleaning products, no doubt. He and Bea agreed never to talk about it. He sent her a message where he referred to the exhibition as a date. She sent him the aubergine emoji and a peach. Thomas flatters himself with the thought that it’s not about that. He has a condom and a small pack of lube on his person, but it’s just precaution. A man never knows when he has to stick his dick somewhere. Except _he_ does. He’s never had sex outside of a committed relationship.

Rick has that sense of adventure around him that tells him, _maybe. Maybe this time._ He’s helplessly attracted to spontaneous people. There’s a small problem with them: they always move on.

He hears some clamour and there they are, the photography students, a whole class, all well above the age range Thomas can confidently handle, but hopefully he won’t have to interact with them. Rick is wearing a maroon shirt and jeans, rolled up to show off his ankles, and ankles shouldn’t be this enticing, but Thomas can’t look away, and when he finally manages to guide his attention anywhere else he’s staring at Rick’s chest. The room is cold. His nipples are visible. Thomas swallows around a lump in his throat.

“There you are,” Rick says, his whole face lighting up; he lifts his arms, but surely, they’re not going to hug?

“Ah, the _artist_ himself,” Thomas seethes. Maybe he put too much venom in it, because Rick drops his hands and looks—strange, somehow, and Thomas prays he remembers their agreement, that he was to pretend to hate him. He can’t be sure, because an assistant steps forward and instructs the students not to take photos; Rick says she has the wrong crowd for that, and there are weak puffs of laughter from the audience. Thomas cannot help but smile as well, dropping the act, looking desperate. Rick’s gaze finds him and he mouths something, Thomas isn’t sure what.

He lingers behind, trailing the group and half-listening to Rick’s explanations. There are too many technical details to wrap his head around, so he loses himself in the music of it. Rick’s voice is deep and soothing, and the pictures pull Thomas in, a panorama of past and present, growth and decay, and it’s—well, it’s orderly, there’s a rhythm and a pattern to it, and that’s endlessly comforting.

Sometimes he feels like Rick is looking at him, but he doesn’t turn to check. His face is burning, there’s fire in his belly. He’s easily affected, there’s no use  fighting or denying it, but this is special, Rick is special. Rick hangs his naked soul on walls. It’s all him, the mountains, the canyons, the trees, the horses running through the mist; the beauty, the curiosity, the restlessness, and within it all, a wild sort of peace, an immense _satisfaction_ . This is the closest that Thomas has ever experienced someone else’s happiness through art. If he was the critic he’s pretending to be he’d say it’s not art at all, that Rick is a reporter, and he shouldn’t want to be anything else, but he knows these photos are different, they’re not documents, they’re showing something Rick couldn’t just chronicle, something he had to _express_.

The students flock away, and there’s just the two of them and the assistant. Thomas wants to say something, tell Rick how the photos made him feel, that they made him feel so much, but all he can think of is half-remembered lines of poetry, _tell me how it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses_.

“So how did you like it?” Rick asks. He looks shy, somehow, but eager.

“‘It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,’” Thomas finds himself quoting, and when Rick makes a face he hastens to add, “‘it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,’” and just like that, he made it worse. What he wants to say is this, _I loved it so much I don’t have the words for it_ and _this exhibition didn’t end, it doesn’t have to end, I’ll carry it with me like that policeman carries a song in his head_ and _my favourite one was with the horses_ but he should probably settle on _it was lovely, thank you for inviting me_.

“Was that ugh, Richard Siken?” Rick asks. Thomas is mortified. Rick wasn’t supposed to recognise it. It’s a _love poem_ . He nods and as  they look at each other he can tell they’re thinking of the same line, _these, our bodies, possessed by light._

He doesn’t even like contemporary poetry. He’s a modernist. He should tell this to Rick. He wants to tell him everything. It’s only fair, after Rick has bared himself like this. (But it wasn’t just for him. It was for everyone who comes to the Barbican.) (He shouldn’t be jealous.)

The assistant politely asks them to leave, and Rick says, “Coffee?” which Thomas doesn’t immediately recognise as an invitation.

“No, I don’t like coffee,” he says, chatting, realising that he just refused something he’s been craving the whole damn week. Rick doesn’t press on, and it’s terrible; but they leave together, and Rick holds the door open.

“Where are you headed?” he asks. Thomas weakly indicates Golden Lane. Rick grins. “My way.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Thomas announces, having collected himself. He wants to offer his arm to Rick like a proper gentleman, but resists the temptation. They walk side by side; the street is under construction, and the part of the pavement that is actually usable is quite narrow, so they keep brushing against each other.

Rick asks him about his life. He tells him details confidently. This part is easy. It’s like a job interview. He used to work for Harrods. He’s perfectly qualified to be an associate general manager, thank you very much. He has more than a decade’s worth of supervisory experience. He has an excellent track record of clienteling, omni-channel retailing and customer satisfaction improvement. Somehow, by the time they reach the Thistle City Barbican hotel, he’s also managed to confess his deepest, darkest fears (bed bugs; death by blackberry muffin; talking rabbits), his saddest childhood memory (the week he spent with an adoptive family who then did _not_ adopt him), and cleared up his tastes in poetry (just so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.)  

“W. H. Auden all the way,” Rick agrees, and then indicates the hotel. “So um, this is me.”

“No, this is a building,” Thomas says. It’s a lame joke, bit Rick laughs, and then bites his lips, and damn. Damn, damn, damn. He’s too cute like this. Thomas wants to grab his ears and kiss him. He bites his own lips instead. Their gazes meet.

“Do you wanna come up?” Rick says, looking him over.

Rick is a very companionable, easy-going man. He probably doesn’t mean it like _that_.

* * *

Rick is sucking open-mouthed kisses on Thomas’s neck as they roll around in the hotel’s bed, fully clothed. It’s a possibility that he’s attracted to Thomas. He’s rock hard. It’s easy to notice with how he’s grinding against him.

Thomas tries to keep his moans down. It’s a nice room. It’d be a shame to get kicked out. Minimalist design, subdued colours and pops of turquoise. The bed is his favourite part. It’s king-sized and still, it doesn’t seem capable to _contain_ all of Rick, he’s so enormous. Thomas strokes his back, feeling the mean muscles shifting beneath his palms. Half-crazed he thinks, _I got you, I got you, got you all for myself_.

Rick pulls back. His glasses sit on his nose lopsided, lenses smudged.

“How far can I take this?” he asks, raking his hand through his hair. That is unfair, that is just unfair, he has such beautiful hair and he smells like heaven.

“You can take it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Rick barks a laugh and dips down to kiss his neck again, then higher, his chin is next, the corner of his mouth—a moment of hesitation, then lips pressed against lips. Thomas licks at his mouth; he’s never been shy to demand what he wanted, he’s just never demanded things from people he only met a week ago. This is dangerous, and he’s high on the thrill, and what makes it so _divine_ is that he already knows enough about Rick to realise he’d never hurt him, not intentionally.

The kiss is hot and wet and perfect, and when Rick breaks it he keeps caressing Thomas’s cheekbones, looks at him intently.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, touching his eyebrows now, his forehead. It feels more intimate than how their cocks are pressed together. “I’ll remember you like this,” Rick tells him. Thomas wants to asks, _you will remember me?_ , and he shouldn’t tear up, it’s silly, they’re here to fornicate and that’s it.

Rick puts the glasses aside, pulls off his shirt. Thomas almost chokes on his saliva. He needs to get naked as soon as possible. Rub his whole body against this _god_ , this holy being.

Rick helps him undress, and he keeps showering him with praise, _that’s it, so soft, baby, baby,_ and with a sinking feeling Thomas realises that maybe Rick doesn’t know his name.

“It’s Thomas,” he says. Rick looks at him, frowning.

“I know,” he says, more confused than offended. “You had a name tag. Should I say your name? Does that turn you on?”

The turn on is Rick remembering it at all, but Thomas jokes how he likes to be called Mr. McGregor. Rick just goes with it, _what a lovely cock you have, Mr. McGregor, can I touch it, please let me touch it_. His big fist closes around Thomas’s cock once they roll a condom on, and as he begins to pump it Thomas’s head lolls back, mouth open to a silent cry.

(Rick didn’t even made fun of his underwear. It might be unfashionable, but it’s very comfortable.)

Rick presses his forehead to Thomas’s pale chest, heaving big breaths as if he was touching _himself_ , he’s so into giving a _handjob_ that Thomas is not sure what happens if or when they move on, how will they survive. Rick’s nose keeps digging into him, and it shouldn’t be erotic, neither how he keeps dropping Thomas’s cock because the condom is pre-lubed and he’s going too fast. Thomas is a wreck; this is the only part of his life where chaos makes _sense_. He revels in being made into this whimpering, squirming mess.

Rick starts fingering him and he has to grip the sheets, it’s so good but so overwhelming. His legs are thrown over Rick’s shoulders. He still has his socks on, and the garters, but they just couldn’t _bother_ , and it certainly adds to the experience. _Why wasn’t I doing it sooner_ , Thomas wonders, but he knows he wouldn’t enjoy getting fucked in a three-star hotel room by any sodding idiot; it had to be Rick, it had to happen exactly like this.

Rick lines up his thick cock which looks enticing even with a fluorescent green condom on, and begins to press in. Thomas makes a face, eyebrows knitted, and Rick halts immediately.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. It’s a more complex question than what Thomas is expecting (a grunted “you okay?” or an over-worried “are you in pain?”) so he just looks at him, wide-eyed, mouth open. Rick kisses him. He’s still not moving.

“I’m—um. Do carry on.”

 _These, our bodies, possessed by light_.

Rick holds him as if he was something precious when he resumes rocking into him. Thomas usually has his eyes closed during sex, but Rick just keeps staring at him; it would be off-putting, if it weren’t so unexpectedly hot. Thomas has the distinct feeling that Rick is memorising him (he said he’d remember him, he said he’d _remember_ ). He puts on a show for him, wriggling and moaning, not caring anymore what the people in the next room would think (it’s so early, and again, this is strange; shouldn’t one-night stands happen in the cover of darkness?)

He can feel Rick so deep; he fills him completely, to the bursting. Thomas is reminded of the mountains and the rocks from his photograph, as if he was making love with the raw power of nature; but it’s also just the nice man who walked into his shop, and Thomas is so smugly proud. _Look at me being impulsive. Daring_.  

But now he’s thinking about the shop, and before he could stop he asks, “Did you manage to fix the camera?”

For a horrifying moment he thinks that this was it, that now everything is ruined because he should pretend he’s getting fucked _brainless_ , and of course it’s amazing, mind-blogging—but nothing that _ever_ happened to him made him lose the ability to think, or more precisely, think about his job.

Rick has the oddest reaction. He bloops his nose. “You wanna get photographed?” he asks, making Thomas blink in surprise. That sounds frivolous, and like a very bad idea, but it makes him clench around Rick’s cock nevertheless.

“Depends, are you into revenge porn?” he manages to say, pushing back against Rick to show him he’s in charge; just because he’s getting dicked down it doesn’t mean he’s not to be respected and feared.

“I could do it with your phone,” Rick says, and even before the sentence is finished Thomas interrupts with a “yes.”

A regrettable consequence is that Rick has to pull out while he retrieves the phone.  Thomas feels lube leak out of him; he’s gaping embarrassingly, and he misses Rick’s cock inside of him with a greedy intensity, eyeing how it bobs between Rick’s legs as he fumbles with Thomas’s jeans; it’s so full and rigid and not to mention _humongous_. Thomas never understood the appeal of dick pics, but it’d be nice to have something to remember _this_ by.

He pulls up his legs to his chest, holds himself open as Rick turns and _stares_. 

“Like this,” he says. Rick gets into some kind of trance just by looking at him; he puts the tip back with an almost dreamy expression, and Thomas hisses at the stretch. It’s not even an inch in, and it’s already _so much_.

Rick gets very focused as he angles the camera. Thomas tries to guess how the photo will look, whether it’ll have an artistic touch or if it’ll be just _filthy_. As Rick bottoms out with one slick motion he realises he has no preference. He moans, and at the click of the camera moans again, longer, more exaggerated, but still genuine; he loves the attention on him, the reverence of how Rick treats him. He feels _majestic_ , worthy of such awe.

They pick up the pace and Thomas grinds his hips up into Rick’s, arching his chest—Rick puts a thumb over a nipple, plays with it for the camera, then grabs his jaw gently, turns him this way and that. It’s not humiliating—Thomas feels like a wild thing that needs to be tamed, and he knows it shows in his eyes. He reaches down to grab his own cock; Rick watches him yank at it through the screen, and that does it for him: with a low groan, he comes. He snaps a picture as he pulls out, hand over Thomas’s stomach, out of frame, _I’ve got you_. Their eyes meet.

“How can I get you off, Mr. McGregor?” he asks. “Should I offer my ass or my mouth?”

“Give me your phone,” Thomas says. He can feel the tremble that shoots through Rick as he gets to his knees. Thomas lies back, stroking his cock while Rick ties off the used condom and searches his jeans. He presents a huge brick of a Huawei; Thomas smirks at it. Rick starts climbing atop him, but Thomas tsks, and makes them topple over, Rick ending up between his thighs, his cock poking at Rick’s sternum.

“You wanna fuck my chest?” Rick says, getting a handful of his pecs and squeezing them together. All Thomas can do is gasp weakly, vaguely affirmative—the display is even better than he imagined. Rick waits for him with a confident smirk, excited, an adorable twinkle shining in his eyes.  

Thomas knows he won’t last long, so he positions the phone first, then presses his cock to Rick’s strong chest, rubbing it between his pecs. Rick throws his head back, mumbles something that sounds like _shit, Thomas._ Thomas doesn’t dare to move—he’s going to come, but it’s so good, he wants it to last. A few experimental thrusts; it’d be better with lube, but he has no patience to check if they have any left, so he enjoys the slow burn of it and watching how Rick is fondling himself. The camera clicks, clicks, clicks.

“Do you do this often when you—When you’re alone?” Thomas asks, and the word he’s been avoiding blurts out, “Alone masturbating.”

“I sure as hell will now,” Rick pants.

“Did anyone—?”

“If only. It’s my secret kink, so ugh. You’re the first.”

There is no chance to survive hearing that. After his orgasm, Thomas stares down at himself in mild disbelief, whole body tingling. He did it. He did it with a stranger.

* * *

The stranger shows no intention of kicking him out any time soon. They’re cuddling atop the sheets; Rick is half-hard again, but doesn’t suggest round two, content with stroking Thomas’s hair as he flips through the pictures. Thomas rests his head on his chest, counting his heartbeats. (He fucked that chest. It’s unreal.)

“Look at you, beautiful,” Rick says, zooming in on a picture of Thomas’s mouth rounding to a small O, eyes clouded. “Would you be offended if I suggested you should do it professionally?”

“I do everything professionally. I pride myself in it.”

“I mean, like a side-hustle.”

Thomas scoffs, ears burning. “You can’t be serious.”  

“Toy merchant by day,” Rick says, voice dropped low like he was promoting a movie, “lewd muse by night. Mid-afternoon, anyway.”

“Muse,” Thomas repeats and peers up at him. He had this man inside of him. This man thinks he’s beautiful. (This man also thinks he’s a toy _merchant_ , but that’s kind of adorable.)

“It’d be a life’s work to discover your topography.” It sounds weird, but also touching. Rick’s hand slides down Thomas’s side, tickling his ribs, cupping his soft belly. “It’d also be an honour and an absolute fucking joy,” he whispers. Presses a kiss to Thomas’s forehead. Thomas feels a bit choked up again. It sounds like goodbye.

“You think so?” he says. Rick sets the phone aside, giving him his full attention. He looks at him like he was an answer to a question he hasn’t yet asked, hopeful, fulfilled. He rolls them over gently, lying atop Thomas. He shields him entirely, a painfully familiar heat coming from him.

“You fascinate me,” he whispers, then frowns, and adds, “Is that weird to say?”

“We just had sex,” Thomas says. “It’s not weird.”

Rick laugh, relieved and oddly nervous. Thomas begins to suspect something.

“Are you new to this?”

“Complimenting people, being overbearing or ugh, sex?” He makes a mock-offended face, nose scrunched up. “Was I that bad?”

Thomas’s gaze drops to his chest. He can’t help it. He even pokes it. “Sleeping around,” he says.

“Yeah, I mean no.” Rick tries to pull away, but Thomas hooks his arms around his neck. They end up in a sitting position together, Rick holding onto Thomas’s hips, kneading them absent-mindedly like he can’t keep his hands still. “I mean,” he explains, “I do jump into bed with people I think are amazing, sorta—Like we start from there, but it’s in reverse, I mean, that’s what I’m hoping for. For things to… continue. But then I wake them with breakfast and they look at me like I’m a UFO or something.”

“A UFO with a flying saucer and eggs and bacon,” Thomas says. Rick has uneven, sharp teeth that make his smile unbearably endearing. Thomas wants to touch them. Maybe he should.

“Yeah, yeah, like that. So what I’m saying is—I’ve grown up? I don’t mind if sex is just sex. Especially if it’s great. And this has been great.” He squeezes Thomas. Doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s staring at his heart. “But I… I wouldn’t be opposed to you know, a date. Or two. Getting to know you.”

Thomas is relieved, but slightly disappointed. So much for his heartbreaker, his tall dark stranger who ravishes unsuspecting shop owners, a reckless fling with a maneater. The relief certainly outweighs the letdown. He’s bubbling with excitement. They could go on a date right now. The whole of London awaits. He has plenty of time to catch his last train. He could even sleep here. Have _another_ date next day.  Actual bloody _dates_.

He could show Rick all the good places (all the posh places). He could admit preferring cabs to Uber, pricing be damned, just because they’re cleaner. He could tell him he’s never been to a club, not one, but that he frequents the opera and ballet makes him cry. That he always sits on the same bench in Kensington Gardens, and whenever it’s taken his day is ruined. He could be himself around him, his prissy, fussy, unexciting self who always takes his tea at five o’clock on the dot and wanks with the pinkie up. Against all odds, Rick wants to see more of him.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. Rick nods solemnly; Thomas laughs, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a gift to [starkickback](http://starkickback.tumblr.com), an incredible artist and the queen of Kylux adjacent ships, who came up with the Thomas/Rick pairing; I was immediately captivated by the ship, and I’m so happy I could write a little something for it. Many thanks to Ash for the beta work!
> 
> The poem quoted by Thomas is [Scheherazade](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/scheherazade-crush-by-richard-siken/), and the title is from [You Are Jeff](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff-crush-by-richard-siken/)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@longstoryshortikilledhim](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com) // there's an [edit](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/173828268261/thomas-has-major-abandonment-issues-so-he-has) for the fic


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